Protected Trinity
by Jevvica
Summary: D'Artagnan knew he wasn't going to make it. Across the courtyard, by the wall, through the smoke of powder and the clash of swords, it was brutally clear to him. Porthos was struggling to rise, blood pouring down his cheek. D'Artagnan wouldn't get to him in time.


Summary: D'Artagnan knew he wasn't going to make it.

Across the courtyard, by the wall, through the smoke of powder and the clash of swords, it was brutally clear to him.

Porthos was struggling to rise, blood pouring down his cheek.

D'Artagnan wouldn't get to him in time.

 **Author's Notes:** Sometimes, the protector needs to be protected.

This is a companion piece to "Protection Trinity", but can stand alone.

(Honestly, I'm damn proud how they mirror each other.)

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan knew he wasn't going to make it.

Across the courtyard, by the wall, through the smoke of powder and the clash of swords, it was brutally clear to him.

Porthos was struggling to rise, blood pouring down his cheek.

D'Artagnan wouldn't get to him in time.

Not before one of the two men flanking him finished him off.

And d'Artagnan was running, a band of iron around his chest.

Because he had to try.

Dodging bodies and evading attacks.

One of the men raised his sword.

D'Artagnan leapt, barely intercepting the downward stroke with his own blade. He pushed the man back with all his strength and then flailed wildly at the other, forcing them to give ground. He planted himself between them and Porthos.

D'Artagnan didn't dare look too closely, but Porthos was trying to push himself up. Blood dripped onto the stone beneath him. The young Musketeer refocused on their assailants.

They circled to opposite sides, dividing his guard. He growled and kept moving, spinning and jabbing, fighting to keep them on guard and off balance. Because as soon as one of them truly engaged him, the other would be free to kill Porthos.

The thought stole his breath.

And he could not let that happen. Not Porthos, who held them together.

As if roused by the thought, Porthos groaned and fought to his knees. One eye was swollen completely shut and red with blood.

The man nearest him jumped back as d'Artagnan slashed at him.

Porthos gained his feet and nearly crashed into d'Artagnan. He reeled away and planted his back against the wall.

"'M up," he grunted, pulling his parrying dagger with a shaking hand. "D'artagnan, I'm up." D'Artagnan took the cue. He turned his full focus to the man to his right, sending him to the ground in three moves. He whirled to find the other, but he was already dead, Porthos' main gauche buried in his chest.

The rest of the courtyard was quickly coming under control, the enemy dead or surrendering to the Musketeers. He turned to Porthos, who looked ready to collapse again. He studied d'Artagnan with his good eye.

"Not bad," mumbled Porthos thickly, a grin uneven in his puffy, bleeding face. "Not bad at all."

"You're welcome," quipped d'Artagnan as he slid under Porthos' arm, taking some of the man's considerable weight. Warm and alive. And proud of him.

D'Artagnan managed to take an easy breath.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos methodically made his rounds through the ballroom. There'd been no threats or signs of danger, but it wouldn't be good for anything to happen at this party thrown in honor of some visiting nobles.

Athos had very little desire to associate with the King's guests. It was all rather tedious, but with any luck, wouldn't last too much longer.

He caught sight of Porthos through the throng and moved toward him. As he approached, he saw that Porthos had the attention of a few of the visiting ladies.

Athos fought a smile. Interesting. That was usually Aramis' department.

Porthos' face was tight, his smile too forced.

Something wasn't right.

His grin died.

"Your French is very good," simpered one of the ladies.

"Thank you, madame, it should be, I am French," said Porthos evenly.

"Surely not," chimed another. "I mean, where are you from originally?"

"Paris, madame. All my life."

"Is your family here? I heard all the Moors were banished from Spain. Did you move here then?"

"I'm not-".

Porthos' knuckles were pale.

Athos pushed through the crowd.

"Or were they servants? You know, with all the new plantations being created in the New World, they are in need of many workers."

"I-".

"My husband says that France is missing out on a profitable opportunity by not joining in the trade from Africa."

"Their hair is a most interesting texture…" She reached for Porthos black curls.

Icy anger washed over Athos and he caught her hand mid-air and pushed it down briskly.

"Madame, I believe you are behaving in a manner most unfit for this court." She sniffed and looked at Athos with disdain.

"You are a common soldier. You've no right to speak to me in this court at all."

"Athos, of the King's Musketeers," said Athos, bowing ever so slightly. "And it would not only be my duty, but my pleasure, to escort you to the Queen so that you may tell her how you have disrespected one of her most trusted guards."

The women stared at him and then looked at each other and at Porthos, whose face was like stone.

"Is that how you wish to close your visit to Paris?" asked Athos mildly. "If not, move along and let this be the end of it."

The ladies moved away with the barest of dips required by polite society and disappeared into the mix of people.

"You didn't need to do that," rumbled Porthos when they were safely alone.

"Perhaps not. But you did not need to tolerate them for one moment longer."

Porthos looked down, his eyes sad. Sad and young and vulnerable.

Porthos always seemed the strongest of them all. It ripped at Athos to see him brought low.

It made him want to apologize. For the snobbish ladies, for each ignorant noble, for every single person who had ever looked at Porthos like he was an oddity. Or worse.

But Porthos wouldn't want that.

So Athos stood next to him, close enough their arms touched. And for the better part of an hour, any glance their direction, any curious gaze, was met with the hardest, coldest glare he could manage.

Given how quickly they all looked away, it was pretty effective.

Finally, Athos felt something loosen in the big man standing next to him. He let out a long, slow breath and gave Athos a shadow of a smile.

"Sometimes...I just get tired of bein' different."

"You are," said Athos quietly. "You have more integrity and more honor than they will ever know. You are different because you are better." He squeezed Porthos arm. "Never doubt that."

Porthos' smile grew a little stronger.

* * *

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Aramis watched the card game from his table.

Porthos' opponent was getting more and more agitated.

Aramis was getting more and more uneasy.

As well as he knew Porthos, he couldn't always tell when the big man was cheating, but even if he wasn't, he was not making a new friend.

He scanned the room that felt like a powder keg.

The weather had been brutally hot for days and short tempers had spread through the city like an illness. An affliction Porthos seemed to have caught.

In the darkest corner, a group of soldiers were paying for too much attention to Porthos' table. Finally one shifted and Aramis caught a flash of red.

Damn.

They were out of uniform, but one had his distinctive cape. Red Guard. That's all they needed.

Porthos' laugh was especially loud and booming as he pulled a pile of coins toward him.

"You're cheating."

Porthos leaned back, his smile dangerous.

Aramis rose and sauntered toward the table as casually as he could.

"I'm not, but it's not like I needed to, 's poor as you're playing."

"Scum," hissed the man, standing abruptly. "Swindler."

"Sore loser," retorted Porthos, "but if you want to settle this outside, we can." He looked practically joyful in the challenge.

"Now, gentlemen, there's no need to ruin everyone's evening," soothed Aramis. He leaned against the table, making sure his pauldron was visible. "Why don't I buy you a bottle and we can forget any unpleasantness." He motioned to the barmaid.

The man looked at Aramis, his shoulder and back to Porthos.

"At least your friend has some manners," muttered the man. He grabbed the offered bottle and turned away.

"We're leaving," murmured Aramis.

"'M not ready," growled Porthos.

"I wasn't asking." Aramis knew he couldn't move Porthos if he didn't want to be moved. Not physically. He looked at Porthos and then glanced at the dark table where he could feel eager eyes watching them. "We need to leave," he enunciated.

Porthos glared up at him for a long moment and then flicked his eyes to the shadows in the corner.

Aramis nearly realized his mistake too late.

Porthos was spoiling for a fight, had been for days. And there was a brawl ready and waiting and Aramis had just served it up on a platter. He rested his hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"We're outnumbered and that's not counting any other enemies you've made tonight." Porthos didn't answer, Aramis could see him weighing the odds. "Porthos, please."

Porthos frowned at Aramis, clearly unsettled by the plea.

"Alright." He stood, finished shoving his winnings into his pockets and let Aramis herd him toward the door.

The late evening air was barely cooler than the basement tavern had been.

"Where to next?" asked Porthos.

"No where," snapped Aramis. "We're going home."

"You go on. I'm not ready." Aramis used speed and surprise to shove Porthos into an alley. He blinked in surprise and allowed Aramis to pin him against the wall.

"Were you cheating?"

"No."

"Porthos."

"No! I'm a good at cards. 'M not always a cheat, a thief, scum," spat Porthos angrily.

"Of course you aren't!" sputtered Aramis.

"You seemed awfully sure a moment ago." Aramis stepped back and ran a hand over his face.

"Don't try to pretend you always play fair, Porthos. But you're usually careful! Challenging someone to a duel in front of Red Guards? Who were just waiting for an excuse to drag you off to the Chatelet? Or perhaps your arrest would've gotten out of hand and you would've died in the street."

"You don't know that."

"Maybe not. But you're clearly in the mood for a fight. What's going on?" Porthos didn't move away from the wall.

"Nothin'." Aramis tilted his head and waited. The tall Musketeer slumped a little more and looked away. "It shouldn't...all these years and you'd think it wouldn't..." His eyes were distant, shadowed in the twilight. "I don't know when it was. I just remember it was hot. When my mother died. No air moving and no relief and she was burning up with fever." Aramis stepped closer, but Porthos was lost in memories. "She cried and cried, but there were no tears...and so many flies…" Porthos shook himself and stood up straight. He glanced at Aramis and cleared his throat. "This heat wave, guess she's been on my mind."

"You were looking for distraction." Porthos shrugged.

"Maybe. Didn't really plan it out."

"If you need a fight, if you need to pummel someone," said Aramis softly, "we'll go to the garrison and you can beat me senseless." Porthos frowned at him.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Finding you dead in a ditch tomorrow morning would hurt me, Porthos. A few bruises would be a blessing compared to that. I would welcome broken ribs and black eyes, if meant keeping you safe."

Porthos' face fell.

"'M sorry. I didn't think."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," murmured Aramis, sliding a hand around the back of Porthos' neck. "I knew something was wrong, I should have asked sooner." Porthos took a deep breath and managed a watery smile.

"That offer of a match still stand?"

"Yes," laughed Aramis, pulling Porthos away from the wall and slinging his arm around his back. "And after you've pounded me at hand to hand, Athos can teach you some humility with a sword."

The entire walk back to the garrison, Aramis never let go of Porthos.

* * *

 ** _A/N: As always, I can be found on tumblr._**


End file.
